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In the summer between my high school graduation and my first year at UNBC, I was working on my Alternate Animorph Ending, making mixed music cassettes, expanding my book collection and going on long walks to my favourite bookstore/café (Books & Company) to write. I remember thinking I would have to get every project of real importance done before September: my life as I knew it was about to be over. But my first attempt at novel writing was not quite finished by the time classes started. My head was full of my Animorph Ending, and my first all-original series “Drescopata” was starting to creep up in its wake. I knew writing novels was far from over, but I pretended I could juggle. I took notes mechanically, and reassured myself I’d catch up on comprehension closer to exams. The only class that managed to get my undivided attention was Children’s Literature. Assigned reading was about a dozen children’s novels — only two of which I hadn’t already read (“A Royal Ransom” and “A Cricket in Times Square”). The most major assignment was a choice between writing an essay or a children’s story (why anyone chose essay is beyond me). I think I could have juggled four classes like that, no problem. But of course, my other three were math, anthropology, and introductory teaching. I never knew until then that I could be so disconnected from what I had to learn. I had never excelled at math or science, but I’d always kept up with every required course in high school. Keeping up was supposed to be second nature, but now, I felt lost and very intimidated by everyone else’s concentration. I found I also lacked the will power to seek help or try harder. I used to sit with a history major in the same study corner. We’d chatted enough to know she was a dedicated textbook reader and I a distracted fiction writer. Once I sat with her for about five minutes staring at a math worksheet; then I put it away and pulled out my laptop. She smirked at me and said, “you didn’t last long.” And I didn’t. I dropped out of university, and enjoyed my starving artist lifestyle until years later when I discovered ECE. During the months I tried university, I naturally wrote a poem to angst about it:

I have a brain, but it’s not quite the same as what everyone here seems to have.

They’ll study for hours, but I can’t keep pace;I hate it when life is a race.

I can’t think how this poem came to mind except through word prompts, which would make it circa age twenty. It seems to describe the introverts who have noble aspirations but too little gumption to force them into the open. I’m certainly an introvert, and a believer in the power of good.

Age 17-19, my writing obsession found its roots in my burning desire to fix the Animorph ending. When one has a writer for a mother, one doesn’t accept a beloved book series’ integrity thrown out the window as a done deal. My mother, however, entrusted the salvation of Animorphs to me, thus allowing me to discover that I was a writer myself. In the beginning, much of my process was hyping myself up for the big job ahead. I came up with a little song, the tune for which is essentially the chorus line “so much for my happy ending” (from “My Happy Ending” by Avril Lavigne). It wasn’t important that the song feel good to anybody but me. The fact was that singing it made me excited about my project, the same way that dancing inexpertly to loud music made me energized for writing. Bear in mind that the following lyrics are meant to be accompanied by the righteous rage of a motivated teen and her imaginary rock band:

I’m gonna say circa age 13 for this one, but if you think I became less of a happy-go-lucky teen age 14 onwards, you’d be wrong. I could see myself writing this glaringly optimistic song at any point before my school-hating phase at age 17. This was before I even knew I was a writer, and yet life was evidently wonderful;-) I think I still had more steam for the occasional angry song, because only two verses of this got written. I found abandoned notes for four more. Verse 3: a relaxing activity/a good conversation, verse 4: excitement/thrills, verse 5: good news/something to look forward to, verse 6: compliments/success. Definitely not going to write those verses now, so enjoy an unedited hurtle fourteen years into the past…

This poem reflects the financially naïve twenty-year-old brain I possessed when I first started living away from home. I moved in with my roommates in Abbotsford, sitting on $6,000 that I’d saved from working in fast food in Prince George. I intended to use my savings for living expenses until I became an independently wealthy author. I figured I could keep my savings afloat by sticking to the bare essentials: rent, food and any opportunity to further my writing career. To help replace money that had to be spent, I did get part-time jobs almost right away (Blockbuster for a couple weeks and Apple Betty’s for three months). I didn’t expect to stay at $6,000, but I expected to fluctuate at a nice safe height for as long as I needed. To my credit, I did last about six months before I had to start living paycheck to paycheck. The cold hard truth hit me when a cheque I’d sent for a writing contest bounced (never play writer-lottery on writing contests that aren’t free; the getting-published lottery is hard enough without that extra stress).

Anyway, now that I’ve had seven years to improve my life balancing skills, I’m not too embarrassed to share how I used to be. Welcome to my first home away from home:

There’s a filter on the kitchen tap, instead of a water cooler.

Two garbage bags balance against the dining room wall.

An internet cord coils across my bedroom door,

So I must lift my feet, going in, going out.

I bought my bed at Value Village—it’s a mattress in literal speak.

I lift it each night off the carpeted floor and tuck my blanket ends underneath.

My clothes come from a friend who lost weight.

They’re big on me too; I have a good belt.

A couple nice shirts shut up in the closet, so the cat can’t pull them down.

One suitcase is my dresser; the other, laundry basket.

I don boots and coat to do my laundry.

Carry the load out our front door, to the front door of the boarders below.

Two washers, two dryers; one of each works,

Five people share; two I don’t consult with.

Never leave laundry ’til no clean clothes left.

Broke the blinds in my room; I’ll change in the bathroom.

For the soap there I thank every Body Shop gift, until now unused and unneeded.

This poem reminds me of how angry I got with my printer yesterday. When technology frustrates us humans, we tend to crave an emotional object to punish. Suddenly, my inanimate printer has tender feelings and if I yell at it and call it names, it will be so sorry it ever made me mad. This is how I explain my behaviour anyway. And I’ve seen other people do it too. Oh, but if objects really could care, what trouble we’d all be in! “Hall Light” circa age twenty for my online poetry course:

I wrote this one for an English assignment when I was fourteen. She was my favourite English teacher, and when she got my Haiku lamenting my current condition, she wrote with a little smiley face on my paper: “but not forever”:-)

This poem has no special, life significance and I’m not going to pretend it does. One of my goofy word prompt poems, circa age 20. Have you noticed how much I love word prompts? I’m thinking of writing a dramatic poem based on phrases I’ve made with my Shakespeare Insult Generator (awesome souvenir from Bard on the Beach). Maybe I’ll even build a poem around the words my husband and I played in a recent game of Scrabble. Hey, just be glad I don’t write my novels this way…

We slick our steps in goo Since just the other day An unfriendly shoe or two Came up that easy way

Our guests arrive, Stamp their feet, Though we lower ladder; Climbing up that wretched thing Is such an awful bother

“Coat those rungs, good goo!” I cry, “If our pals fuss fun away,” Really, what would they do In our shoes and mayday?

This was for a contest to rewrite the lyrics of the song “Four Strong Winds.” I remember that my aunt Holly put me onto it. She’d heard about it on the radio or something, and since I was a writer in full contest mode at the time, she suggested that I enter. Judging by what I came up with, the objective was to make the song very Canadian. Probably a Canada Day contest. This was long before I actually did go to Prince Edward Island on my honeymoon. Anne of Green Gables was the major appeal of the place. I still love all of L.M. Montgomery’s fiction, perhaps more consistently than any other author’s work. Circa age twenty, here is my Canadian “Four Strong Winds” renamed “Gold Swirl Free.”

I’m a-goin’ cross the country From B.C. to farthest shore Got to see those forests Stretching everywhere You’ll pine for P.E. Island, If I bring you some red sand, Anne in her green gables Born of beauty there Gold swirl free from pan soil, Rocky Mountains climb skies Far as all tomorrow, what’s to be, Beavers build homes in nickels Prairie grass scratches ’n’ tickles, I will show you if you venture forth with me.

This was one of my word prompt poems circa age 20. “Train” and “mouse” were two of the words. With most word prompt poems, step 1 for me was finding all the possible contexts for the random words I’d chosen. Step 2 was choosing my favourite idea; step 3 to build a poem around that idea. I guess this is one of my lazier pieces, because I didn’t move past step 1: